The First of Many
Feidelm O'Hart Dyflin 972 A.D. “Damn normanni,” The armored woman grunted quietly, boarding the rickety ship. It lurched around underneath her feet like an escaping cattle, and as much as she tried to forget the shifting, it always threw over one way and almost sent her careening over the edge. It took too much to even get the blasted uniform, the entrance to the ship itself had been just as nerve-wracking. If any of the normanni caught her, a Gael – a Gaelic'' woman'' at that – on board, she would probably be killed or thrown off the ship into the water below. And in this heavy suit, she would probably still be sinking even after she perished. Many thought the normanni did no harm – they protected the country, made it a kingdom of their own, but they were not exactly the most gracious guests to the lands. Ever since they killed the trespasser's brother, she was out for revenge. After the leader of this particular ship. The one she'd helped to build herself, and now the ship she would gladly spill blood in. Anything to give them the message. Get out. At the head of the ship, glaring down at a torn yellowed map, was a single man. Much less than what Feidelm had prepared herself for, but that would only make the task at hand easier. A loud crack of thunder sounded in the distance, and as if on cue, the boat lurched sharply to the left. She shifted her feet and kept control over my shaking body, reaching for the sword she'd crafted with the blacksmith. A storm was coming, obviously, and he would eventually turn and see her, still considering whether she could actually kill a man or not. But the memories came back, the news of her brother being thrown off a boat, left to drown in the sea, all because of this one man.... She gripped the handle of the weapon they called a ballin, the steel sword. Feidelm was ready now, slowly drawing it from her belt, careful not to shake the chain mail covering over her chest. Slowly, she crept behind the man in the ridiculous helmet, sword ready to plunge into his back. The boat lurched again, this time shoreside, this time throwing the both of them to the edge of the boat. The ballin slipped and pierced her leg, opting her to curse loudly in her home language, alerting the ''normanni ''of the main things she feared most. Number 1, she was obviously a Gael. Number 2, she was a ''female ''Gael. Number 3, she was prepared to kill him. He leaped to his feet and looked around for one of his crew members – no luck, thankfully, most were awaiting the incoming storm in one of the many homes. Feidelm retrieved the sword from her leg, not caring about the crimson stain on her brown pants. The pain stung, perhaps it was infected, but that could wait. As the boat lurched to the left again, sending her rolling into one of the dark benches were the ''normanni ''would sit, she lashed out with the blood-tipped blade, narrowly missing the captain, who hopped across the benches with ease despite the sudden wind and and small droplets of rain. The storm was here now. Quickly, the blasted ''normanni ''untied the ship and it began to thrash about in the now-churning waves. Feidelm couldn't seem to get onto her feet, rolling desperately around in the open way between the benches, her head smashing into each of the dark planks of wood. The leader of the ship, instead of hurrying to the front for his ballin, simply waited it out, gripping once of the benches further from the Gaelic girl. When she fell unconscious, he would be able to strike easier. His ship, and he himself, had handled storms much worse than this. When she'd stopped thrashing about, trying to get a better grip on something, the captain carefully stepped over to her, ripping the shining helmet off of her head. Short, messily-chopped red hair clung to her head, and from this angle he could notice certain things about the armored attacker that supported the fact that it was, indeed, a woman. The ship, meanwhile, had turned sideways, and instead of each wave smacking headlong into the ship, it only waved around the edges, much safer than how they'd traveled in the beginning. There was no remorse as he scooped the unconscious woman off the floor and simply tossed her into the water, somewhat satisfied for foiling an assassination attempt. Once she made contact with the cool water, the girl sprung to life again, attempting to focus more on the waves overcoming her head than the pounding on her temples. The boat was likely on its way back to harbor. She hated the water. Feidelm tried to bring her arms out of the surf, but the strong armor, as she predicted, only helped her to sink. Her legs became stiff and numb after only a few seconds of staying above water, and her arms were becoming that way just as fast. The Gael reached for the ship, which seemed to be coming closer with each threatening wave, but as another wave approached, she fell to its power, falling underwater without a way to propel upwards. Her lungs were clogged, the short strands of red hair waving around her. The longer strands clumped onto her cheeks as the darkness further enveloped her, leading her to the sound bottom of the ocean. She was surprised, as she released and took in another gallon of seawater, when a voice interrupted the painful swelling around her head and ears. “Feidelm,” A burst of heat gripped the wound where she'd accidentally stabbed herself, prompting her to scream and again, only meet cold water. The warmth spread across her leg, and then the other, until she could visibly see orange light crawling up her body, like the forge fires. The color of a handmade sword just before it's thrown into the cool water. “Your body is one of your own creations – forged by the flames of hatred and responsibility. The fact you tried to make right what has wronged your brother will never cease my new found pride in you, daughter.” Feidelm's eyes shut tightly as her ears popped, everything sounding hollow. The heat etched onto her jaw until she could no longer open her mouth, finally realizing she would never be able to return home. Even the voice calling her daughter was not comforting, despite the fact her father's spirit was now beckoning her to her new home. “I will grant you a new life – one for each attempt to right yourself and your family. In the end, however, you will find there are indeed more troubles in life than your own. Succumb, daughter, open your eyes to the new world.” And the darkness swallowed her. Category:Cycle of Ferrum Category:BakaYellow Category:Short Story